


it will touch through your ribs, it will take all your heart

by Lenore



Category: The Fall (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Coda, F/F, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 12:45:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5456981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A coda to the series two finale. In the aftermath, Stella has a long night ahead of her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it will touch through your ribs, it will take all your heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stickmarionette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stickmarionette/gifts).



The reporters ask all the predictable questions.

"Why wasn't the security detail larger?" 

"There were more than enough officers to ensure that the suspect wouldn't escape," Stella says coolly. 

The hospital's briefing room is significantly smaller than the one at police headquarters. A sea of eager faces looms close. Stella can practically feel their hot breath. A shower and change of clothes has made her feel nearly herself again, up to the task of parrying journalistic jabs. If her hands still tremble, no one else needs to know about it. 

The reporter leans forward in his seat. "But not enough officers to keep someone from shooting Spector while he was handcuffed to one of your detectives." His voice is sharply critical, as if Stella should have been able to predict what happened, as if there's no such thing as the benefit of hindsight.

"We had no reason to believe Mr. Spector was in any danger," she says evenly.

Only in the aftermath did they learn that they had a leak in the department. Ned Callan gave up protecting his source less than ten minutes into the interview, as soon as he realized the gravity of the charges he was facing. Accessory before the fact. A possible life sentence if Spector died. The department's dirty secret won't stay hidden for long, but that will be Jim's PR disaster to manage when it happens.

This one is Stella's. 

"Knowing what you know now, would you make the same decision regarding Spector?" another reporter wants to know.

Stella stares coldly. "You are aware that Rose Stagg is alive and being treated in this very hospital?"

The reporter has the good grace to look sheepish. 

A sharp-eyed woman in the first row asks, "Assistant Chief Constable Burns is noticeably absent today. Is that a sign you've lost the confidence of the PSNI?"

"Assistant Chief Constable Burns is absent because he's briefing the Chief Constable."

The reporter doesn't look as if she believes this explanation, but she lets the matter drop. Stella doesn't entirely believe it herself. Jim had stared at a point just past her shoulder while insisting the Chief Constable couldn't wait so she would have to handle the press conference on her own. It didn't take much in the way of interpretation to glean she was being left to bear full responsibility for any failures of foresight. Despite his years as a police officer, Jim has never really perfected the art of a poker face.

"Did the focus on this series of murders draw attention away from other crimes? James Tyler was a repeat offender, and yet he was free to roam at will."

Stella decides against the tart but true response that if domestic violence were the focus of anyone's attention James Tyler would have been in jail where he belonged a long time ago. No one in this room, no one in the PSNI wants to acknowledge that Tyler and Spector are two versions of the same problem, simply at different points on the continuum of male violence toward women. It's more comfortable to label Spector a psychopath, treat him as an outlier, and write Tyler off as just another thug.

"There's no reason to believe that the murder investigation had any impact on the handling of other cases. What happened was simply—" Stella considers her choice of words. "An unfortunate confluence of events."

Eventually the questions devolve into a rehash of what's already been asked, and Martina puts an end to it. "That's all for now. Thank you for coming." She darts a sympathetic look at Stella, as if she understands the politics of that lonely podium all too well.

Maybe this is knowledge all professional women share. 

The elevator's silence feels almost startling after the dull roar of the briefing room. Stella leans back against the wall, the metal cool through the thin fabric of her blouse. When she first started at the Met, one of the few female senior officers at the time, a DCI named Kay Denton, took Stella under her wing. They met regularly for drinks at an out-of-the-way pub far from where they might run into their male counterparts—because as Kay said: _One woman is a token; two is a coup. Best not to make them nervous._

They would talk about their cases, internal politics, how to work around the obstructionists among their male colleagues. Stella has never forgotten one particular bit of advice Kay gave her: _Be meticulous, be flawless, because if things go pear-shaped, they'll be all too happy to make you their sacrificial lamb._

She walks to the end of the long corridor to the waiting room that's been set aside for their use. The officer posted at the door nods as Stella passes. Inside the room is filled with people all waiting for different answers to the same life-and-death question. 

Mark Stagg sits hunched on a chair in the corner, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, eyes closed as if he's trying to channel all his strength to his wife as she fights for her life. 

There's no Sally Ann Spector, of course. She's still in hospital recovering from her miscarriage. Stella can't help but wonder if she would be here if she could. What's the degree of depravity that cancels out love? The level of monstrousness that blots out need? These are questions that haunt Stella for obvious reasons. The tensile strength of human affection is beautiful and terrifying, how far it will stretch, how grotesquely it twists and contorts before breaking. 

Ferrington is present too, tensely waiting for a verdict on whether the man she shot will survive. Her partner plies her with cups of tea and concerned looks that she doesn't appear to notice. There's a bitterness in the set of her jaw that Stella can readily understand. Most police officers go their entire careers without once drawing their weapons. There's only so much consolation in knowing that you had to take a life to save a life. 

The door swings open, and the collective intake of breath is nearly audible. There's a palpable sense of disappointment when Tom appears rather than the doctor. His gaze scans the room and settles on Stella. He moves toward her, his gait off-kilter, his body stiff as he drops onto the chair next to her. A Kevlar vest will keep a bullet from piercing skin, but nothing can protect a body against the sheer force of being hit by a projectile traveling at three thousand kilometers an hour. 

"You should get some rest," Stella tells him with concern. 

He darts a glance at her, side-eyed and hurt, and Stella doesn't need to be prescient to predict the scene waiting for her at some not-so-distant point in the future. _Why did you care more about him? Why was he the one you wanted to save?_

Stella will tell the truth: _You were wearing a vest. I knew you'd be all right._ It won't matter. He'll still insist on believing she harbors some secret fascination with Spector, the weight of his own jealousy making him certain of it. Sometimes Stella thinks that nothing has changed in all the millennia of human history. Maybe nothing ever will. Women will always be something to possess, something for men to battle over. 

"You don't need to stay," she tells Tom. "I'll call you if anything changes."

He stubbornly remains seated, but his pallor is grey with fatigue, lines of pain set around his mouth. His eyelids droop heavily from whatever medication they've given him.

She touches his arm gently. "Tom." 

He perseveres another ten minutes before exhaustion finally wins out. Stella walks him down the hall and waits with him until the elevator comes. He steps inside and fixes her with one last parting look, a promise that the subject of Spector is far from finished between them. Stella smiles, a little sadly, because endings are wistful, even when they're inevitable. 

As she returns along the corridor, she notices a doctor in scrubs leaving the waiting room, and she quickens her step. It's immediately clear what's happened when she steps inside. Ferrington sits ashen-faced. Her partner leans close, trying to offer comfort through sheer proximity. 

When he spots Stella, he casts a helpless glance in her direction. "It's James Tyler, ma'am." 

Stella nods and takes a seat on the other side of Ferrington, who stares into the distance, jaw working as she fights to keep control.

"Ferrington," Stella says gently. 

Ferrington interrupts. "I know there will be an investigation, ma'am. I'm aware of procedure."

"Yes, that's true. But it's something to discuss another time. Is there someone waiting for you at home?" 

Ferrington hesitates before giving a tense nod. 

"Then that's where you should be," Stella tells her. "Your partner can drive you."

The young officer bobs his head in agreement, looking relieved that there's finally something he can do to help. 

"Go on," Stella urges when Ferrington seems reluctant to leave. "Get some rest. We'll talk more later."

Ferrington goes, head bowed with the weight of responsibility she has to carry. Later, when she's had a chance to get past the initial shock, Stella will offer any support she can. She's seen too many officers fall into a dark, unforgiving place after a shooting and never recover. That won't happen to Ferrington if Stella can help it. 

Tanya appears in the doorway, bearing cups of tea. She stops to speak with Mark, but he hardly seems to hear what she says. When she presses a cup into his hand, he clutches at it numbly but doesn't take a sip. Tanya touches his shoulder, as if offering a benediction. 

Tanya delivers the other cup of tea to Stella and takes the seat next to her. "I thought you could use this."

Stella raises an eyebrow. She hardly expected to see Tanya here. 

"I've only just heard, or I would have come sooner. I spoke with the A&E doctor who treated Spector. Given the extent of the injuries, it's likely to be late before he comes out of surgery." 

Stella nods. It's what she expected. She sips at her tea and resigns herself to the long hours of waiting ahead. 

Tanya takes in a breath, and there's a thoughtful beat of silence before she says, "I'm sure I don't need to point this out, but I will just in case. Something can be your responsibility without actually being your fault."

The corner of Stella's mouth tips upward, not because there's anything amusing in this situation, but simply because Tanya can see so easily what Tom likely never will. Spector is Stella's responsibility: hers to hunt, hers to catch, hers to bring successfully to trial so the families can have whatever feeble comfort justice has to offer. To fail at any part of that, even if it isn't directly her fault, even if no one could have foreseen what happened, is a crushing weight, one that's nearly impossible to bear. 

"Where are your little girls?" she asks, because there's no point in dwelling on what's impossible to change. 

"They're with their father visiting their nana for the next few days." Tanya settles more resolutely in the chair, as if she doesn't plan on going anywhere anytime soon. 

Tension that Stella hasn't even realized she's been carrying in her shoulders eases just a bit. It's a relief to feel less alone, although even Tanya's steady presence can't keep the pictures from looping through her head, the immediate aftermath of the shooting replaying again and again. Spector was hit in so many places that whenever she applied pressure to one wound blood would gush from another. A snippet of a nursery rhyme about fingers and dikes kept flitting inappropriately through her head. She remembers calling out to her team although exactly what she said is lost now from her memory. What she'll never forget is Spector's expression, how smugly he smiled as if he thought he'd won something. 

Maybe he viewed her concern for his life as a victory over her sympathy, but the Paul Spectors of the world will never have any claim on Stella's compassion. The Olivia Spectors, though. That's a different matter entirely. 

On the way to hospital, while the paramedics worked feverishly to stop Spector's bleeding, Stella kept recalling his daughter, how tiny her hand had felt in Stella's, how tightly she'd clung to her father's neck, not wanting to say goodbye. Olivia has a lifetime of impossible questions ahead of her. _Why them? Why not me?_ No one knows this better than Stella, and there's no sparing Olivia from that inevitability. But as long as Spector is alive at least his daughter has the chance to ask those unanswerable questions. A monstrous father who loves you is better than no father at all; this has been the surprise of Stella's life. 

The certainty of this belief falters when the waiting room door swings open, and a weary-looking doctor in a white lab coat steps inside. In the beat of silence before the woman speaks, Stella doesn't know what she's hoping to hear. 

"Mr. Stagg?" the doctor says, scanning the room.

Mark jolts up in his seat. "Yes?"

"Your wife's condition has stabilized," the doctor says, with a reassuring smile. "She's awake and asking to see you."

Mark's face remains blank for a long moment, as if he can't process the meaning of the words, and then his expression breaks open, stoicism crumbling away. He breathes in and out several times in quick succession, his eyes leaking tears. Tanya goes to hug him. Mark's gaze catches on Stella, and he nods. She's not sure what interpretation to take away, whether he's thanking her for finding his wife or absolving her for putting Rose in danger in the first place. 

Once he's gone, it's just Stella and Tanya remaining, stillness settling over the room. Stella intends to tell Tanya that there's nothing she can do and no point in staying, but Tanya speaks up first, insisting in a firm voice, "I'll fetch more tea."

Jim calls while she's gone. "Any word on Spector?"

"Not yet," Stella tells him, "but the doctors predicted it would be a long night. Rose Stagg is awake and out of danger."

"That's good news at least."

"How did it go with the Chief Constable?"

There's a long pause before Jim says tiredly, "As you'd expect. Let me know as soon as there's any word on Spector." 

Tanya settles next to Stella and hands her a paper cup. "Everything all right?"

Stella considers the question. "That remains to be seen."

They go through many more cups of tea. Tanya starts to slump in her chair as the night wears on, wisps of hair working free from her ponytail and falling against her cheek. Stella watches out of the side of her eye. It's a relief knowing that she never wrote about Tanya in her diary. No sensual after-images to fuel some leering detective's masturbatory glee. Not that Tanya has never figured in Stella's dreams. But writing down what her unconscious dredges up is less about remembering than establishing a comfortable distance from which to examine it. Stella has never minded keeping Tanya close. 

It's the sort of realization that encourages confidences. "Annie Brawley said Spector was the most helpful anyone has been. A good listener. Not judgmental." 

"Christ," Tanya says under her breath. "It would be easier if we could just write him off as a complete monster and be done with it, wouldn't it?"

"Probably," Stella admits. "But there's no such thing as monsters. There are only human beings and the terrible choices they make."

"Don't you wonder how men like Spector become the way they are?" Tanya sounds genuinely curious.

"All the time."

"Have you ever come up with an explanation?"

Stella considers the question. "No. Never." 

When the doctor appears at last, it's nearly three in the morning. "Mr. Spector survived surgery and is in stable condition. I'm cautiously optimistic."

Stella draws in her breath. It's the news she was hoping for, but now that she has it, she can't ignore a splinter of doubt. There's no pretending the world wouldn't be better off without a man like Spector in it. How could any woman think otherwise?

The doctor promises to contact Stella if there's any change in Spector's condition, and the moment feels strangely anticlimactic. Spector will most likely die in prison, not in this hospital. There's nothing left for Stella to do here now.

"Come on," Tanya says, nodding toward the exit. 

Outside the night is eerily still, unusual in the city even at this hour. Stella rubs at her eyes, gritty with lack of sleep. Her body feels almost numb with exhaustion, but she balks at the thought of going back to the hotel and inhabiting the space that Spector put his fingerprints all over, breathing in the exhaled carbon dioxide that he left behind. She needs to be free from any thought of him, even if only for a few hours. 

Tanya swings her leg across her motorcycle. "You can follow me back to my house," she says, as if this is something they've discussed and settled on. "Or—" She nods at the back of the bike. 

Stella imagines what Tanya's house will look like: family pictures on the wall, children's drawings on the refrigerator, signs of life in every room. Nothing like the stale blandness of a hotel room. Nothing to remind Stella of Spector. She gets on the bike. 

The wind whips Stella's hair as they maneuver through the streets, buildings blurring past. She holds onto Tanya's waist and savors the fleeting illusion of freedom, the rich scent of leather, warmth of another body. They turn into a lovely house with a well-tended garden, and when Stella follows Tanya inside, it's just as she imagined: a home. 

Tanya hangs up their coats. "Can I get you something to eat?"

Stella shakes her head. She's too exhausted for food. 

"Come on then," Tanya says and leads the way upstairs. 

Stella follows her down the hall, not into a spare bedroom as expected, but into what is clearly the master. There's a white eyelet coverlet on the brass bed, painted wood nightstands, a rug so plush it sinks beneath Stella's feet. The room is on the back of the house, so there's no noise from traffic. Everything is still and serene. 

Tanya opens a drawer. "Here." She hands Stella an oversized T-shirt, smiling. "It's more comfortable than sleeping in your clothes. There's a spare toothbrush in the vanity." 

In the bathroom, Stella washes her face, brushes her teeth, and drinks a glass of water. She stares at herself in the mirror dispassionately. This case has aged her. If she were just a little less tired, she'd wonder what she's doing here with Tanya, but she doesn't have the energy for self reflection right now, and this is not the most questionable decision she's made lately, not even close. 

She returns to the bedroom to find that Tanya has changed as well.

"Be right back," she says, slipping past Stella into the bathroom. 

The coverlet has been turned down, and even though Stella is an interloper here, there doesn't seem anything to do but get into bed. 

Tanya comes back and joins Stella. "Is seven early enough?" She reaches for the clock.

Stella nods, although she doubts she'll sleep even that long. Tanya sets the alarm and turns out the light. Stella stares up at the ceiling, not sure if she'll sleep at all. 

"Stella," Tanya's voice is soft and close in the darkness. 

"Yes?"

Tanya's hand finds Stella's, clasping her fingers for a moment before sliding up her arm, curving around her shoulder, urging her onto her side. The kiss is sweetly self-contained, not meant to lead anywhere, just to soothe, to connect. Stella finds herself relaxing, kissing back easily, stroking her fingers through Tanya's soft hair. She doesn't pretend to know where Tanya imagines this going, if she imagines it going anywhere at all, but the important thing is that there is life on the other side of this case. It's good to be reminded of that. 

"Think about the rest of it in the morning," Tanya whispers against Stella's cheek.

She settles against Stella's side, and when Stella closes her eyes, sleep comes easily.


End file.
